| VOL. IX. | FEBRUARY, 1901. | NO. 2 |
| Still lie the sheltering snows, undimmed and white; And reigns the winter's pregnant silence still; No sign of spring, save that the catkins fill, And willow stems grow daily red and bright. These are the days when ancients held a rite Of expiation for the old year's ill, And prayer to purify the new year's will; Fit days, ere yet the spring rains blur the sight, Ere yet the bounding blood grows hot with haste, And dreaming thoughts grow heavy with a greed The ardent summer's joy to have and taste; Fit days, to give to last year's losses heed, To reckon clear the new life's sterner need; Fit days, for Feast of Expiation placed! |
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— Helen Hunt Jackson.
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| These winter nights, against my window-pane Nature with busy pencil draws designs Of ferns and blossoms and fine spray of pines, Oak-leaf and acorn and fantastic vines, Which she will make when summer comes again Quaint arabesques in argent, flat and cold, Like curious Chinese etchings . . . By and by, Walking my leafy garden as of old, These frosty fantasies shall charm my eye In azure, damask, emerald, and gold. |
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— Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
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